


Futile Devices

by DeceasedRaven



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Headaches & Migraines, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21743356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeceasedRaven/pseuds/DeceasedRaven
Summary: "He listens to the song. Then starts it over. Pauses it halfway. Starts it over again. Listens through to the end. There’s a tightness in his chest that he attributes to nothing at all. He can sense TK hovering somewhere behind him and resists the urge to put his palms over his eyes. "Because who among us has not had a Gay Breakdown while listening to Sufjan Stevens.
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 5
Kudos: 219





	Futile Devices

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to this version of the song for the full effect: https://open.spotify.com/track/2Ye8WSJGzw7LqcUxCzphli
> 
> Do not listen to the CMBYN version. We do not acknowledge her.

TK’s at a practice Nolan had felt too horseshit to go to, so he lets himself into TK’s apartment. Maybe that’s weird, but at this point, Nolan doesn’t care. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything except face plant onto TK’s couch and half-heartedly watch NHL TV.

The image is weirdly crisp on TK’s TV. Nolan can see every drop of sweat on last night’s leading scorers, and he watches as they slide down into backs of jerseys, or sometimes down onto the ice with a soundless plunk. It doesn’t quite feel real when TK is suddenly on screen before him. Nolan squints against the brightness of the Flyers’ jersey and watches as TK cuts through defenders like butter. He sheds an attacker, before deking the goalie to the ice and burying it top shelf. The crowd roars. They replay in slow motion. There’s something about TK’s fingers on the stick, deftly maneuvering the puck. Nolan feels mesmerized. He feels a quiet pride like a hot coal in his chest.

Some bullshit analyst roundtable is next. Nolan shuts off the TV and shuffles around the living room. It’s a mess. He maneuvers around a tangled pile of controllers and cords. There’s a couple of mini sticks inexplicably leaning against each other in the corner. Nolan picks one up and uses it to flip the spare socks littering the carpet into TK’s room. One makes it into the laundry bag TK has flipped over his closet door. Nolan kneels, cellys, fist pumping like he’s on the ice and he’s scored the game winning goal.

There’s no crowd to roar. There isn’t even TK to make fun of him.

Nolan goes to the kitchen, makes himself a ham sandwich. He’s not supposed to drink, but there’s nothing he wants more than a beer or four. He pours himself some orange juice instead. There’s a cluster of pigeons duking it out on TK’s window sill. A big ugly gray one is the clear frontrunner, batting the others away with his enormous wingspan, but Nolan’s money is on a smaller, brown bird. He’s feisty, gets back up every time he’s knocked down, and picks his way through corners the others can’t even turn in. After taking a couple of dirty head shots, smaller guy takes a running start and leaps onto the bully’s chest, pushing him off the sill.

Nolan gets up to watch as they tumble stories down until they’re out of sight.

He washes his dishes, sits back down. Time is creeping by so slowly. He gets up and hovers in TK’s bedroom door. He’s been in there, obviously, but never without TK present. It feels illicit to cross the threshold. He skims his hand along TK’s dresser. There isn’t much. A comb, a stray tie. Couple of crumpled post-it notes. Nolan smooths them open.

“Call mom,” says one, and “Dry clean suits” another. There’s some kind of list of protein powder brands, and a small sketch of a clown riding a horse? A donkey? “Give Patty his gloves,” says the last one.

News to Nolan that TK had his gloves. He wasn’t going to, but now feels justified digging through his drawers. Socks, boxers, more socks, which feels like an extreme amount considering how many Nolan rescued from the living room. Pants, shirts, a box of condoms, a bottle of lube. Nolan feels his cheeks flush, and he carefully closes that one. The last drawer holds a jumble of hats and scarves and things. Nolan finds his gloves neatly bundled in the corner. He pulls them on, stares at his hands, then shoves them back in the drawer. TK stole them. It’s his responsibility to return the stolen items.

The pain from earlier has come back with a vengeance. Nolan wants to pull back TK’s sheets, collapse onto his bed, but a glance at his phone tells him it’s been four hours now since he’s wandered through TK’s place. He’ll be back soon, and Nolan doesn't want to have to explain why he’s in TK’s bed.

Nolan crawls onto TK’s couch. His phone buzzes. He thinks to check it, promptly forgets, and falls asleep.

He’s warm when he wakes up. The pain is gone, and he feels very safe. He doesn’t remember falling asleep under blankets, but there’s a stack on him now. He covers up his face, pretends he’s in a cocoon. A very fuzzy, very large cocoon.

“Pat?” he hears, and uncovers his head.

TK strides in, a mug in each hand. He slides one over to Nolan.

“You enjoy my couch?”

Nolan ignores him. He picks up the mug. Sniffs.

“It’s decaf, bud.”

Nolan takes a sip. It’s good, not too sweet.

“Thanks,” he says. His throat feels stripped dry, his voice comes out raspy.

“Sure thing.” TK heads to his room and ruffles Nolan’s hair as he passes. “I’m gonna do some laundry, but then you’d be up for a round of COD or something?”

“Yeah,” Nolan mumbles. He huddles back into his blankets, stares at the ceiling. Sees TK’s face when he closes his eyes, before he remembers to check his phone. He has a bunch of random notifications from Instagram, his ESPN app, Kevin. He ignores those in favor of a text from his sister.

They don’t really text that often, and when they do it’s usually to send each other song recommendations. It’s more or less a way for Madison to punish him for making fun of her music taste, like, three years ago. Their mom had heard and forced Nolan to make it up to her in some way. Basically, now, Madison is allowed to send Nolan any song she wants, and he has to listen to it. He’s required to send songs back to Madison, who for some reason is allowed to veto certain artists if she wants to even though he isn’t.

Their text conversation has mostly just looked like this:

Until Madison had put a moratorium on Mt. Joy. And now it looks like this:

Nolan finds “Futile Devices” on Spotify. Digs his earbuds out of his pocket and shoves them in his ear.

He listens to the song. Then starts it over. Pauses it halfway. Starts it over again. Listens through to the end. There’s a tightness in his chest that he attributes to nothing at all. He can sense TK hovering somewhere behind him and resists the urge to put his palms over his eyes. There’s the quiet noises of laundry being shoved into the washer, detergent pouring, the lid clanking shut. The cycle starting with a steady woosh.

He feels TK shove his feet over and sink down onto the couch alongside him. Nolan refuses to look up from his phone. There’s a warm hand on his knee that doesn’t move even when Nolan twitches with it.

“You’re real pale, bud,” TK says.

Nolan shoves his phone between his knees and belatedly remembers to take out his earbuds. He stares at TK.

“It’s your head again?”

Nolan nods, then stops, burying his head in his arms.

“Not really,” he says to the arm rest. “I feel a lot better. Compared to earlier.”

The hand on his knee has migrated to his thigh. It sweeps back and forth, slowly. Nolan tries to breathe with the motion.

“You ever have something you needed to say out loud, but it’s too hard?” he asks TK.

He watches as TK scrunches his face, bites his lip.

“For sure, yeah. Why, what’s up?” His voice is casual, but his face has gone serious, eyes heavy.

Nolan feels the words catch in his throat. He picks up a pillow, puts it over his face. Mumbles them into the pillow and hopes TK can somehow hear.

The hand stops.

“Nolan,” TK says.

Nolan looks up. TK has moved closer. He’s looking Nolan in the eyes. Nolan searches. Doesn’t know if he finds what he’s looking for, but it feels like there’s nothing else to do. He leans over, kisses TK. It’s short. It’s bad. Nolan pulls back first, ready to take it back, ready to run.

His eyes snag on the hand on his leg. It’s clenched, knuckles white. TK lets go on an exhale. His fingers move up, over Nolan’s hip, to caress the exposed skin below the hem of Nolan’s shirt. Nolan can’t help his shiver as the hand presses against his lower stomach, insistent.

“You should do it again,” TK says. 

Nolan meets his eyes, cups TK’s face with both hands, and kisses him for real this time. TK makes a soft noise into his mouth. Nolan's body melts into the couch as TK crawls up over him, before easing down onto his chest with a thump. Nolan gets a hand in TK’s hair, pulls him back to look at his face. He puts a thumb on TK’s cheek, draws a line towards his mouth. He pulls it back with a jerk when TK lightly bites at the tip.

TK laughs into his hair. “You were definitely asking for it, bud.”

He rolls Nolan over, so he slots into TK’s arms. Nolan lets his head rest on TK’s chest, the thrumming of his heartbeat steady in Nolan’s ear.

It’s not what Nolan thought it would be. It doesn’t feel like being burned up from the inside. It’s not worlds collapsing or a big bang or anything. Maybe Nolan doesn’t really have the words to describe the settling inside him. As TK kisses him lightly on the side of his mouth, it’s just the song, in his head. The music telling him what he never knew how to say.


End file.
